


Best Laid Plans

by letsbreereal



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Awesome Darcy Lewis, Based on a Tumblr Post, Brock Rumlow Is A Flirt, F/M, He's Also A Pain In Darcy's Ass, Not Canon Compliant, Not-Quite-Triple-Agent!Brock Rumlow, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Public Relations Manager Darcy Lewis, Scarred!Brock Rumlow, Still Brock Rumlow Redemption, ibelieveinturtles Deserves All The Credit, taserbones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27907741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsbreereal/pseuds/letsbreereal
Summary: Based on/adapted from/inspired bythis tumblr promptbyibelieveinturtles.Darcy thought that Tony accidentally creating a MurderBot intent on destroying all of humanity would be the biggest challenge she'd ever have to face in her public relations career, but that's before Pepper asks her to manage the PR nightmare that is Stark Industries' latest hire: Brock Rumlow, former HYDRA goon, recently-pardoned-formerly-wanted-terrorist a.k.a.Crossbones. The job itself is hard enough, but, you know, it'd bejust a little bitmore manageable if he'd just stop with the constant flirting and let her focus more on making America trust him and less on trying not to strangle him every time his back is turned.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 95
Kudos: 217





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I recently stumbled upon the sheer magnificence that is taserbones, and even with dozens of plot bunnies running rampant in my mind, I couldn't seem to shake this idea once it'd taken hold. I meant for this to be a simple one- or two-shot, but, well... I got carried away. We'll see where this goes, but I'd strap in for a shorter rather than longer ride, if I were you. 
> 
> As always, I'm super appreciative of any and all feedback, positive or constructive in nature; kudos and comments give me life and help keep my mind from wandering to other unfinished fics. I'm also super open to other plot ideas for short taserbones fics, for the record, because at this point I've already got a running list of more stories than I can possibly write, so what's one more?

It’s 2pm on a Friday when Darcy Lewis gets the worst email of her career. She’s in her office and already sitting down – thank _God_ – because the squawk of indignation she immediately lets out at the subject line would’ve been embarrassing had she been in public. …Also, she probably would’ve collapsed in sheer surprise, if it weren’t for her trusty and very ergonomically friendly chair.

Alone and seated as she is, she clicks open the email, reads it once, twice… blinks at it for a long minute, and then scrolls back to the top to make sure this was really meant to be addressed to _her_ and not, y’know, _literally anyone else_ at Stark Industries. She sees her name in the salutation though, so lets out a quiet curse and reads through the email one more time.

And, _yeah_ , that’s quite enough of _that_.

She’s up and out of her office – trusty pen and portfolio in tow – before she can waste any more time reading it through _again_. The words aren’t changing no matter how many times she prays she’s having some kind of weird visual disturbance; no, if she’s hoping for an explanation or clarification, then she needs to go directly to the source.

Two left turns and a power walk down a long hallway later, and she’s brushing past a secretary and pushing open one of the oversized, over _weight_ mahogany doors that lead into the executive office. She lets the door shut itself as she strolls in without any kind of announcement or invitation and unceremoniously plops herself down across from where her boss is scanning through undoubtedly important paperwork.

“Pepper, you beautiful, majestic, brilliant, talented, absolute _goddess_ of a woman…” – Darcy draws out in an almost wistful tone, before quickly sobering and fixing said _goddess of a woman_ with an unamused glower – “I thought you _liked_ me.”

The redhead’s lips twitch into a small but fond smile as she turns the page in the document she’s still holding and hums out a reply. “I _do_ like you, Darcy.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” the brunette is quick to dismiss. “Then why are you punishing me?”

“I’m not—“

“You took away all of my other projects and assigned me to _HYDRA Goon of Doom_! Pepper, I was supposed to be in Malibu next week to coordinate our efforts on California’s renewable energy ballot initiative, and then I was going to chaperone Bruce in Paris for that whatchamacallit conference. _Malibu_ and _Paris_ , Pepper!”

“We have an office in Malibu and I can think of at least four different events happening next year that we could send someone to Paris for,” Pepper Potts easily placates, Expert Manager of Overdramatic Tony Stark Whining that she is. She doesn’t so much as look up from the contract terms she’s been looking over, doesn’t even seem to lose her incredibly efficient reading pace as she crisis-manages on the side. “I need you on this.”

Darcy sighs, partially deflating already despite her best efforts to hold strong to her irritation. Weakly, she throws out one more complaint: “But _HYDRA Goon of Doom_?”

“You’re the best public relations professional we have. There isn’t a single disaster I wouldn’t trust you to mitigate… unless that disaster is Tony himself.”

Feeling touched but then just as quickly a little bit insulted, the brunette is quick to scramble up into a straighter, more formal, seated position. “I object to that! I did a _fantastic_ job managing Tony’s lab and making sure he actually ate and—“

Pepper cuts her off by unexpectedly lifting her head and fixing a pointed stare in her direction. “And when the two of you were in charge of planning the Stark Industries Charity Gala last year, you let him invite every playboy bunny from the last ten years _and_ approved a dress code of – and I quote – _sexy animal costume or print_.”

Darcy huffs in mild offense, mutters under her breath about how _it was a good idea, thank you very much_ , then starts to tap her pen against her portfolio in frustration. “I’ll have you know that was the highest-grossing fundraiser of the year, and conservation efforts have _never_ been so sexy.”

“Not exactly the tone we were hoping to set.”

The tapping stops. She lifts the pen and points it in the CEO’s direction. “I’ll concede that point.”

Never one to lose track of her own train of thought, Pepper continues, putting aside her other paperwork and rearranging her features into a softer, more pleading look. It’s annoyingly effective even before she adds: “Darcy, you’ve seen the summary of the file. You’ve seen the _news coverage_. This is the biggest potential PR nightmare we’ve had on our hands since Ultron. _I need you on this._ ”

And there’s not really any room to argue when it’s phrased like _that_ , so the brunette does little more than sigh. “I know, I _know_. I’ll do it – obviously – but I want my complaint noted. _Paris_ and _Malibu_ , Pepper.”

“Complaint noted,” comes the ever-so-slightly arch confirmation. “You can have your pick of next year’s Paris assignments, and I’ll even loan you a quinjet for the trip.”

“You can do that?” Darcy wonders aloud, only to physically wave the thought away a second later. “Wait, wait, don’t answer that! Of course you can. Okay.” She nods to herself, as if she’s just now deciding to agree. “I find those terms acceptable.”

A moment passes, and Pepper arches a delicately shaped brow when Darcy makes no attempt to rise from her seat. “I assume you had more you wanted to talk about?”

“Couple of questions, actually,” she chirps in reply. “First: _why_?”

There’s another brief pause, then: “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

She taps the pen on the portfolio cover once again, this time in contemplation rather than frustration. “Why are we hiring him? You _know_ how much work this is going to be, managing the PR side of things alone, and that’s not even _touching_ the potential legal side of things – I mean, are there possible criminal charges still pending anywhere? Couldn’t he be arrested for, like, terrorism or something… _tomorrow_? – or the general liability of hiring an _ex-HYDRA Goon of Doom_. Why hire him at all?”

The tight smile that answers her makes it clear Darcy isn’t the first one to ask the question. Rather than offer a strong argument justifying the hiring decision, the redhead responds with a question of her own: “Have you _ever_ known Tony to think about the consequences before he makes a decision?”

Once more, Darcy pauses her pen-tapping and waves the instrument in Pepper’s direction. “Fair.” Tony wouldn’t worry about those kinds of things, that’s for damn sure. “But what does he even _want_ with – again – _an ex-HYDRA Goon of Doom_?”

“You have to stop calling him that.”

She scrunches up her nose in response. “Yeah, too many times in a row, huh? I heard it after I said it. Question still stands.”

The CEO nods, then runs through a lists of reasons in a statement that couldn’t possibly seem more scripted if she tried: “He’s a former STRIKE Commander with extensive field experience and a nearly unparalleled mission success rate at SHIELD. He’s run numerous ops supporting the Avengers, and knows how to coordinate multi-team responses to all types of disasters and crises. With his skills and experience, there’s no one better suited to running our security contingent, operation support teams, and disaster mitigation crews.”

This time, it’s the brunette who arches a brow. “…I see you’ve already written our first press release.”

A tiny tilt of the head from one side to the other more or less confirms the suspicion. “I’ll let you finalize everything before it’s sent out, of course, but I’ll forward you what I already had to give to Legal and to HR earlier today.”

Darcy shares an empathetic grimace. Both departments probably had minor meltdowns when they heard the news, and she doesn’t envy Pepper for having to have _those_ conversations. Of course, she _also_ doesn’t feel particularly sympathetic, because she knows _she’s_ the one who will have to continue working with legal on this for _who-knows-how-long_. She’s sure she’ll hear the same grumbling and complaints at least three times a day for the next several months. Shelving that terrible thought for later, she refocuses on the conversation at hand, backing up to the key detail had been left unsaid. “…And what’s the _real_ reason we’re hiring him?”

That tight-lipped, _I-absolutely-love-my-life-can’t-you-just-tell?_ smile is back, and this time Darcy gets a direct reply: “Tony enjoys pissing off Ross and SHIELD – even if they don’t officially exist right now – and he _loves_ doing everything in his power to irritate Steve or just generally make him uncomfortable.”

 _Ahhh_ , and _there_ it is! The pieces finally slotting into place in her mind, Darcy shapes her lips into an ‘o’ of understanding. “See, _now_ I get it.” She takes a second to flip open her portfolio, click on her pen, and jot down ‘ _Ross’_ – lest she forget that one of her first acts of damage control on this project is going to have to be making a phone call to the less-than-friendly Secretary of State – before closing the book and jumping right back into the conversation. “He’s still mad Hill was really working for He Who Is Not Dead all this time, isn’t he?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

She flashes a vindictive grin in response. “You know I’m all for showing up those iPod-stealing holier-than-thou government thugs, so if this is going to make that asshole’s life any more difficult or miserable, then I’m in,” she declares, as if she hadn’t already accepted the assignment a few minutes beforehand. Her expression sobers, though, as she eyes her boss for a moment and gently chews on the inside of her lip. “But… I gotta ask: You think _Goon of Doom_ is worth all the effort this is going to take?”

The redhead heaves an uncharacteristically resigned sigh. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “I’ve been asking Tony – for _months_ – to think about hiring a specialist to take over as Head of Security. I love Happy, don’t get me wrong, but this isn’t just Stark Industries we’re talking about, anymore. With SHIELD out of the picture – at least officially – that means we’re responsible for _everything_ Avengers-related. We’ve got multiple security details to coordinate _and_ _train_ , as well as organizing support crews to take care of damage control _after_ any… _avenging_.”

The uncharacteristically open and _vulnerable_ woman pauses for a moment, stares down at the desk in front of her. Darcy can sense there’s more that her boss wants to say on the matter, so she waits patiently, giving her time and space to collect her thoughts.

“They’re a good team when they’re all working together,” Pepper finally says, her words diplomatic but still ringing of sincerity, “but they’re not always working _together_. Thor’s off-world half the time, and now Steve and Sam are off tracking down leads on Sergeant Barnes for weeks on end, and… When SHIELD fell, that left a hole. Any major bad guys, _especially_ those who are enhanced or who have weaponized suits… The Avengers have stepped up – and I’m _glad_ they have, I _am_! – but they’re _it_. There’s no backup, no SHIELD team to call in for support if things go sideways. I would breathe just a little bit easier knowing we had a team – an _actual_ team, not just a bunch of Tony’s extra suits – who could be sent in after them, provide a tactical extraction or cover or _something_ — _anything_ …

“So I’ve been asking Tony to hire someone who could do… well, _all of that_. Honestly, _Head of Security_ doesn’t really cover the job description, but that’s what I’d been pitching it as. I set up no less than _ten_ different interviews with _extremely_ qualified individuals, but until this week, Tony was resisting the entire idea and refusing to give any of the candidates a real chance.” She laughs, then, shaking her head and rolling her eyes in fond but exasperated annoyance. “Then he comes to me yesterday, says he’ll do it, and – _oh, by the way!_ – he’s already picked out the perfect man for the job and told him he’s hired.”

And Darcy knows the answer to this one, so she lets out a noise of understanding. “Brock Rumlow,” she supplies, earning a nod and a still-rather-strained smile in agreement.

“Brock Rumlow.”

They sit in silence for a moment, and Darcy fills the void by tapping her pen a few more times, but she can’t last very long, not when there are so many questions and concerns bopping around like crazy in her mind. “…We’re clear that he’s _Crossbones_ , though, right?” she finally asks, just needing to be _completely_ certain.

Her boss has an answer ready for that: “Apparently, he was undercover for a year and a half, tracking down weapons and dangerous artifacts HYDRA had smuggled away or sold to terrorist groups, and stealing them back for… well, our _not-_ dead friend, unofficially, but, officially, the President himself.”

Darcy still senses there’s something missing, there, though. This guy was SHIELD – or, HYDRA? Unclear. – for years and years and _years_ , and now, all of the sudden, he wants to jump ship to work for Tony Stark? “And he’s not… still doing that? Working with whatever government agency they’re saying exists, now?” She isn’t going to secretly be helping Nick Fury out by doing all the heavy lifting and PR-managing for his new favorite pet or anything, is she? Because _that_ would piss her off more than missing out on Malibu and Paris – if she successfully transforms this guy’s reputation from wanted terrorist to loyal patriot, only to have him run back into the open arms of government thugs.

The CEO offers a delicate shake of the head in reply. “I’m told there was… a disagreement, and he’s now refusing to do any work for SHIELD or the government ever again.”

The brunette levels a significant look in the redhead’s direction at _that_ particular revelation. “And that… _disagreement_ didn’t happen to be over, you know, _allegiance_ or whatnot?”

There’s a hint of a smile on Pepper’s lips once again as she leans back in her seat and looks ever so slightly more relaxed, now that the topic has shifted to shallower waters. “I don’t think his pardon would have come through if it had,” she points out. “But you can talk to him yourself and ask for the details, if it helps put you more at ease.”

“… _Right_. Because we haven’t just established that the guy is a world-class liar or anything like that,” Darcy retorts with a huff. But a thought interrupts her, and she lifts a finger to hold her place in the conversation, flips open the portfolio again and jots down a quick _‘pardon’_ as another reminder to herself, before clapping the thing closed and picking up right where she left off. “It’s just…” – She leans forward, reaches across the desk and taps the holographic display button on. – “FRIDAY, can you pull up that SHIELD employee photo that was splashed all over the news during the whole Robinhoody-Crossbones thing?”

“Of course, Miss Lewis,” comes FRIDAY’s automatic reply, and after only a half-second delay, the image in question is projected in the air between Pepper and Darcy.

Darcy gestures pointedly with the pen. “I mean, look at this guy! He _looks_ like a HYDRA mole! If you created a lineup of jack-booted thugs and asked me to pick out the one who was secretly evil, I’d pick this guy. I mean this in the nicest possible way… but are we, like, _one hundred percent_ certain this guy isn’t still _actually_ HYDRA?”

“Well, we’re one hundred percent certain that if he _was_ , you two would be _incredibly_ easy targets,” a dry voice answers.

…A dry, masculine, _very-much-not-Pepper_ voice, coming from directly behind Darcy, where she could’ve _sworn_ the door to the office had been very firmly closed.

Darcy freezes, feeling like she’s just been drenched with a bucket of ice-cold water, and locks eyes with her boss in absolute horror as she pieces together just who, exactly, is behind her. Pepper, to her credit, appears perfectly composed, but Darcy’s seconds from collapsing in a puddle of embarrassment. She blinks, bends her wrist until the tip of the pen – ballpoint retracted – digs into her arm and the pain confirms that she is not, in fact, dreaming. …Despite the fact that this is so very clearly _walks-up-to-the-podium-to-give-the-graduation-speech-only-to-realize-she’s-somehow-topless_ level stuff-of-nightmares.

Shitfuck. Why is this her life?

“You don’t have a single guard on this floor?” the voice continues, sounding more critical than it had just a moment before. “And you let your receptionist take breaks without giving you a heads up that your only exit and entryway will be temporarily unmanned?”

“Mr. Rumlow, you’re early,” Pepper starts in greeting as she rises from her seat, that CEO _I’ll-manage-this-situation_ voice and polite smile of hers sliding into place.

And Darcy figures she’s done the whole don’t-turn-around-and-maybe-you-won’t-have-to-acknowledge-that-he’s-real thing for long enough, so she takes a steadying breath and spins her chair, ready to face her newly assigned client and apologize for the accidental insult.

He’s already looking at her when she turns, though, and Darcy suddenly has to hold in her breath, keep every single one of her muscles still, and do absolutely _everything_ in her power not to let her expression betray the absolute shock that rocks through her as she takes in his appearance. Because the face looking back at her isn’t the smooth, front-page-of-a-fitness-magazine-worthy face from the employee photo behind her; it’s the heavily scarred face of a man who looks like he’s walked through hell and clawed his way back to the living.

She glances down, notes the black tactical pants, matching long-sleeved shirt, and fingerless tactical gloves that hide most of his skin from view, but the hints of pink she sees on his neck and the backs of his fingers suggest the scarring covers his entire body.

 _Triskelion: helicarrier crash_ , her mind supplies, as she recalls the very brief summary of the hundred-plus-page-long file she’d yet to open. She knew he’d been injured, but _this_ …

The new Head of Security ignores Pepper’s greeting, his gaze instead focused in on the still-clearly-horrified underqualified-science-intern-turned-lab-manager-turned-PR-specialist. He lifts a mangled brow, fixes an unimpressed expression on that deeply scarred face of his and aims it her way. “Y’think I look like a supervillain, huh? I think I look pretty good, all things considered.”

Darcy’s response is completely unfiltered and terribly, _horrifically_ ineloquent: “Oh, Fuck. _Shit_!” She immediately wants the floor to swallow her whole, and, as it is, she just _barely_ manages to resist the urge to bury her head in her hands and slide further down in her chair. Groaning aloud and even _more_ embarrassed, now, she scrambles to correct the misunderstanding: “I’m sorry. That’s not what I—I was _actually_ talking about your SHIELD photo.” She leans to the side, gestures helplessly over her shoulder at the hologram she hopes is still visible behind her. “Murder-face and all-black outfit,” she adds by way of explanation, only to at the very same moment let her gaze snag on the all-black outfit currently adorning his body. She blanches again, internally cursing her continued stupidity, and shoots him what she hopes is an appropriately apologetic expression.

But he’s _grinning_ at her, now, she realizes. He’s _enjoying_ her utter mortification, and she’ll be damned if that doesn’t help dry up any lingering feelings of pity or embarrassment. _Right_. Jack-booted thug, used to getting his way, years and _years_ of undoubtedly being a massive tool and womanizer. …Not to mention an _actual HYDRA infiltrator who’d killed people_. She shouldn’t feel bad about hurting his feelings.

“I always thought the bad guys had more swagger, so I’ll take that as a compliment, Lewis,” he tells her with a wink – an _actual_ wink, and it’s distracting enough that Darcy doesn’t notice that he somehow already knows her name – before he finally shifts his attention to the woman who had greeted him a moment ago. “The security on this floor is the first thing I want to talk about revamping,” he tells Pepper, his expression suddenly serious once again. “But you wanted me to meet my new babysitter, first?”

She’s almost tempted to jump into the conversation then and say something about how, _oh yeah, she’d heard that Derek was going to be handling his public image situation_ – she _almost_ thinks Pepper would understand if she backs out quietly after this absolutely horrific first meeting – but then she catches the way his eyes cut to her, lips twisting back in the beginnings of a sly smirk, and she realizes he already _knows_.

Unfiltered Foot-In-Mouth Darcy From Two Seconds Ago was right. _Oh fuck_ , indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, _so_ thrilled to hear people really enjoyed the intro chapter to this! You all gave me such an incredible welcome to the fandom, and I hope you enjoy this update just as much! I'm still trying to figure out exactly how long this fic will be, but I'll try not to keep you waiting quite as long for the next update. Enjoy!

Twenty seconds of being alone with Brock Rumlow in her office, and Darcy has already smoothed down her skirt twice, crossed and uncrossed her arms, and hooked only to immediately unhook her foot from under the leg of her desk chair _three times_. She feels intensely and unnecessarily antsy – helplessly so – as she sits there watching her new project make his way around her office, pausing to inspect the spines of some of the books lining her shelves and stopping to take in the photos that make up one of the elegantly-framed collages she’s got decorating her walls. She can’t tell if he’s genuinely interested in seeing what kinds of things she’s interested in, if he’s doing some kind of elaborate security sweep, or if he _knows_ how uncomfortable she is and is either trying to give her space or trying to draw this whole thing out for the hell of it.

She’s not usually this easily disconcerted. It generally takes a lot for something to ruffle her feathers and get her flustered, because she’s not the kind of woman to sweat the small stuff. She’s not unfamiliar with embarrassing moments or anything like that – quite the contrary, really! If anything, she’s so used to them that she’s developed a fairly high tolerance for shame and awkwardness. She flourishes in discomfort, enjoys sitting there with a smile on her face and refusing to feel bad for whatever she’s said or done.

Her self-confidence isn’t wrapped up in some unrealistic expectation of perfection; she knows she’ll make mistakes, doesn’t doubt her ability to mitigate the damage when she inevitably _does_ mess up. She’s a pretty friendly and likeable person, after all, and if her natural charm doesn’t work, there’s always the option of bribery through baked goods. Her go-to apology apple streusel muffins are completely irresistible and have yet to let her down.

So no, Darcy doesn’t usually let her mistakes weigh her down. But she _cannot_ for the life of her stop thinking about how absolutely _horrendous_ that first impression she’d just made on Stark Industries’ new Head of Security was. She cares less about the general embarrassment of finding out you’re talking about someone who happens to be standing behind you. Mortifying, yeah, sure, but she’s already over that.

What’s eating at her is the whole _looks like a bad guy_ thing, because – _holy shit_! – she really hadn’t been thinking _at all_ when she’d said that, had she? Fuck, but she’d really never felt so bad about anything she’d ever said in her life! …And that was counting the time in college when she stupidly (and drunkenly) joked to her roommate about her hookup being legitimately _terrible_ at sex, only to then realize that not only was he _still in the room and able to hear her_ , but apparently he’d also been a virgin and had been trying really hard but was super self-conscious about it. … _Also_ not one of her better moments, admittedly.

And, look, Darcy never claimed to be a perfect person, alright? She has flaws, and being completely intolerant of bad drunk sex is one of them. Apparently so is speaking about people without realizing they’re in the same damn room.

But _yeah_ , she still feels bad about the _dude looks evil_ thing, and as she’s sitting there watching Brock Rumlow continue on in his perusal of her things – now stopping to pick up the little FunkoPop! of Hawkeye that was perched up high on one of her shelves, brow arching with an unspoken question as he glances back her way – she feels uncharacteristically at a loss for how to start the conversation.

The toy he’s holding up seems like a pretty safe topic, though, so she figures commenting on it is better than sitting there in awkward silence. “Clint was so excited when they finally started selling those – if you ask me, I think he personally wrote in to the company _multiple times_ to request he be added to their celebrity/Avengers line… – but yeah, he was so excited that he bought one for basically everyone he knows,” she supplies, can’t help but snort in amusement at the memory. “I’m honestly not sure how many of those sold that _weren’t_ purchased by him.”

“Sounds like Barton,” the former STRIKE Commander confirms, reminding Darcy that _oh yeah_ , Nat and Clint had also been on a SHIELD STRIKE team at one point, hadn’t they? A different one, if she remembers correctly, but still. She’s certain there’s bound to be some tension there – and she didn’t miss the hint of judgment in Rumlow’s voice when he spoke of the archer – but perhaps one or both of the superspies have some positive things they could say about their former coworker? Or, if nothing else, likening him to America’s favorite former SHIELD agents would probably do some good…

She flips open her notebook again, jots both of their names down and adds a large question mark, and does a quick mental run-through of the other Avengers and former SHIELD people she knows. Only one stands out as a likely connection. She taps her pen, decides Captain America’s definitely _not_ on the list of potential allies, but still probably someone she needs to talk to ASAP so that she can get ahead of whatever shitstorm will be brewing _there_ , so she writes his name down, too, then circles it.

By the time she looks up again, Rumlow has put the toy back down, though it’s one shelf down and now has a partially obscured sightline, thanks to one really cool space rock Thor brought her back from Vanaheim. Darcy narrows her eyes, considers it and the completely unchanged, neutral expression Brock is wearing.

“He sees better from above,” she mentions.

The new Head of Security only arches a brow, pretends not to follow. “Yeah, so he says.”

And okay, _yeah_ , there’s definitely no way the relocation wasn’t accidentally-on-purpose, because all grown men are _children_ , apparently. This isn’t news to her. She rolls her eyes at his antics, but otherwise leaves it alone, decides nothing good will come of calling him out.

The conversation lags again, as she sits there staring at him and he only stands there staring back, his body angled toward her shelves, still, but his head turned so that his gaze can sweep over her in a way that feels a little too thorough for her comfort. Darcy feels the weight of the silence bearing down on her, feels the need to say something – _anything_ – because it already feels like they’ve been stuck in this uncomfortable silence for entirely too long.

She clears her throat, gives her pen a few more semi-anxious taps and looks down at her desk. “So, let me just start by saying: I really _am_ sorry that you had to overhear that conversation, that _that_ was the first impression I gave you of me.”

“But not sorry that you said it?”

For a second, she blanches, not at all having meant it that way and semi-panicking that she might have just made the whole thing even _worse_ , but when she looks up, she sees that that arched brow of his is back, and her brain belatedly registers that he asked the question in a dry but not unkind tone.

He’s _teasing her_ , she realizes, so she clenches her jaw and tries to keep a warm smile on her face as she forces air out through her nose. Teasing is better than resenting her forever, right? She tries to keep that in mind, as much as she doesn’t appreciate having what’s probably going to go down in history as the most embarrassing moment of her life be used as the butt of a joke.

She chooses to defend her initial impression instead of groveling, tries for a joke of her own: “Come on, you have to admit your SHIELD photo is pretty murder-face-y.”

There’s a little huff of air that sounds suspiciously like laughter, and his lips quirk up just a bit at the ends. He’s looking at a small display case, now – the one with a tennis ball autographed by a famous ice hockey winger (because, _look_ , she’s a _huge_ fan, and she ran into the guy at a dog park in Tampa, and what was she supposed to do, _not_ steal a tennis ball from a puppy in order to get _something_ signed by the man?) – and for a second, Darcy’s not sure if he’s even going to respond. But he sends another playfully mocking look her way – which could either be in response to her comment or to the tennis ball, she’s not sure – then asks in a deceptively casual tone: “I still look like the bad guy, y’think?”

She fights back the urge to wince, wound still fresh in her mind as it is, and rushes to assure him of the contrary. “Of _course_ not! I never—“

Rumlow’s voice is unexpectedly harsh when he cuts her off. “ _Don’t_.” He turns to face her fully, now, gives his head a slow, disapproving shake. “Don’t do that.”

Darcy’s mouth clicks shut obediently, before her brain catches up and she realizes she’s not actually sure what it is she’s apparently doing that he finds so objectionable, what it is she’s supposed to _not_ be doing, so she opens her mouth again to ask. He continues on before she has the chance to speak up, though, clearly having anticipated her question.

“Don’t treat me differently now that you’ve seen I have scars,” he tells her, “and don’t underestimate me because you pity me or let your guard down because looking at my face makes you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not—“

“You _are_ ,” he insists, “because you’re worried about hurting my feelings. _Don’t be_.”

She narrows her eyes, not appreciating his tone nor his assumption that he has _any_ idea what she’s thinking when he doesn’t even _know_ her… and appreciating even _less_ the fact that he’s probably _right_. She clenches her jaw, leans back in her seat, and refuses to admit he might be onto something. “ _Or_ – and hear me out – I’m just trying not to be a _complete_ jackass now that I know you can hear what I’m saying.” A huff, and she tacks on: “I just think you look like less of a _tool_ , now. Doesn’t mean you act like less of one, though.”

Rumlow doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t appear to react one way or the other. He simply steps forward, places both of his hands on the back of the chair across from her, leans forward just a bit. “Tell me,” he demands after a moment spent staring her down, “who looks like the bigger threat to you, Lewis: Old Me or New Me? Who’s more dangerous?”

Darcy scoffs, because she knows a trap when she sees one. She’s a woman, after all; she knows there’s no right answer to the dreaded _Do you think she’s prettier than me?_ She aims an accusatory finger in his direction, refuses to even contemplate an answer. “That’s an impossible question and you know it. No matter what I say, it’s offensive.”

He seems to give her that much, brushes past the either-or and gets to the point: “I’m more dangerous now than I was before. _Why_?”

She rolls her eyes, feels her regular amount of sass coming back to her, ever-so-slowly replacing the uncharacteristic shame from her unintentional insult. “How could I _possibly_ know the answer to that question?”

And if he’s annoyed by her attitude, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he seems a bit amused, his lips twitching up at the corners. He prompts her again: “If you hit me with that taser of yours right now, what do you think would happen?”

Her answer this time is automatic: “I’d feel marginally better.”

And – _oh, yeah_ – he’s _definitely_ amused, now, as he shakes his head and huffs out another not-quite-laugh. “Probably,” he allows, “until you realized that I was still standing here, unaffected. Then you’d probably feel less _satisfied_ and more _horrified_. …You see, Old Me would’ve been temporarily stunned, probably knocked to the ground, but I don’t work like that no more. That trusty taser of yours wouldn’t do you any good against me now. So _do_ _not_ let your guard down out of pity or discomfort, Lewis. Emotions are entirely too easy to exploit.”

There’s a lesson there, she realizes; he’s being a bit of a _jackass_ about it, but he’s actually teaching her an important lesson. She takes it in, chews on her lip for a second as she reflects, then nods once in acknowledgment of his point. He doesn’t seem to need a verbal thank you, either, because he just gives a shallow nod back, finally relaxes his stance and moves around to drop into the seat across from her.

She brushes past the fact that he apparently knows her go-to weapon-of-choice is a taser, recognizes but does not want to discuss the fact that he’s apparently done some research of his own on her already. She focuses instead on the other detail he’d intentionally or unintentionally revealed: “You have nerve damage.”

He twists his lips back in an expression of bitterness, confirms: “ _Extensive_ nerve damage.”

“I’m sorry,” she replies carefully, not wanting to set him off again by coming across as pitying, but also not being able to walk away from that kind of revelation without saying _something_ in response. “That must be hard.”

Rumlow rolls a shoulder, nonchalant. “Yeah, well… pros and cons. Makes fighting easier when you’ve got a higher tolerance for pain, but the nerves don’t discriminate. Can’t fucking feel the good stuff as well anymore, either. …Clean, dry socks.” His expression softens, turns almost wistful. He cups his hands in front of him, looks down at them and nods pointedly. “Holding a warm cup of coffee… It’s not the same.”

She makes a noise of sympathy, can’t even begin to imagine how difficult that must be, how _empty_ some of the simple pleasures in life must suddenly be. She feels for him, for the first time starts to think that maybe she’d want to help him even if it _wasn’t_ her job to do so… because she can’t imagine _anyone_ deserves to live that way _and_ be hated by an entire nation.

And then he looks back up at her through thick lashes, hands back in his lap and expression suddenly wry. “Doesn’t mean _every_ sensation is gone, Lewis.”

And the innuendo is so overt and such a _complete_ shift of tone that she can’t help but snort, smiling despite her best efforts to keep air of professional disapproval.

He beams at her, looks entirely too proud of himself and entirely too _boyish_ for a man she knows is almost fifty.

She barely resists the urge to roll her eyes again, tries to focus on getting the conversation back on track. “Look, can we start over?” she requests, twirling the pen in her fingers. “I’d appreciate it if we could start over.”

He just keeps that self-satisfied little grin on his lips, ticks his head ever-so-slightly from one side to the other. “Not a chance.”

And that’s not entirely unexpected, so she heaves out a sigh, gives her notepad three firm taps with the pen, and finally sets the instrument down and crosses her arms in front of her. She stares him down for a moment, takes her time trying to decide what her best play is, then ultimately settles for the direct route. “Fine. But I’m not apologizing again, _Goon of Doom_.” She picks the pen right back up again, but this time has an actual purpose behind the fidgeting. She clicks it on, gets ready to take notes. “Walk me through it.”

Brock shows no indication of being anything but perfectly content with her irreverence, but he apparently isn’t able to magically follow her train of thought. “…Walk you through _what_?”

She gestures at him like she thinks it should be obvious. “Your story. When’d’ya join SHIELD? How’d’ya join HYDRA? When did you actually decide where your loyalties lie?” At the sound of her question, she pauses, scrunches up her nose in confused dissatisfaction for a moment. “…Lied? Laid? Fuck it: When did you decide which team you were actually batting for?”

There’s a wide, _filthy_ smile on his lips that Darcy immediately distrusts, and he proves her suspicions correct only a second later when he leans forward, props his elbows up on her desk, and practically _purrs_ : “Oh, Sweetheart, I’ve _always_ known what team I’m batting for. You want me to talk through the greatest hits, give you the highlight reel? I’m not shy.”

She blinks her eyes shut and groans, blames herself for setting him up so easily, blames _Pepper_ and _this damn job_ for making her have to be The Responsible One™ all the time. “You know what I _mean_ ,” comes her immediate protest.

“I know what you mean,” he confirms, reining himself in and pulling back up off of her desk, but doing nothing to hide how entertained he apparently is by the whole situation.

He makes no move to say anything else, though, and so she has to glance up from her notepad, prompt him again. “…Well?”

“Oh, I’m not answering that,” he informs her, tone oddly pleasant despite the confrontational nature of his words. “What is it I’m supposed to say? ‘ _No comment’_?”

She blinks, counts to ten in her head, tries for friendly and professional: “That’s what you should say to reporters – …and police officers if you don’t have a lawyer present, probably… – but not what you should say to me. I’m on your side, Rumlow, but I can’t help control the spin if I don’t know what the facts are, first.”

“You’ve got my file,” he dismisses. “Use those facts.”

And she’s not sure if he genuinely thinks that’ll actually be sufficient, or if he’s just trying to be a troublesome smartass, but either way, she needs to know. She tries to give him the benefit of the doubt, tries to maintain that informative, customer-service-esque attitude. “Reading something in black and white isn’t the same as hearing it from a source firsthand. Besides, I don’t _want_ the third-party perspective, I want to know what _you_ were thinking, understand _why_ you made the decisions you made. There’s no judgment, I just need to know so I can plan the best PR response possible.”

He only looks back at her, does that uncomfortably slow, clearly scrutinizing thing where he sweeps his gaze over her from waist to head once again. “And what exactly _is_ the PR response you have in mind?”

She stiffens, hears the hint of derision and clocks his lack of trust in her ability to actually reform his image. Never having been one to handle professional slights all that well, Darcy has to work to hold back her irritation, has to consciously relax her jaw as she forces out a reply. “Look, my _own_ brain-to-mouth filter might not always work as well as it should, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Rumlow lifts his one remaining brow. “Did I say I thought you didn’t?”

And of course he didn’t – that would have been too obvious! – but Darcy’s been underestimated her whole life. She knows how to recognize when someone lacks faith in her abilities. “You didn’t need to,” she points out.

He shows her his palms, apparently also clocking _her_ displeasure and, somewhat surprisingly, not being completely immune from the strange tension that’s suddenly filling the room. “I’m just asking, Lewis,” he assures her. “You’ve got my file; I just want to know what’s in store for me.”

Darcy gives the former agent a once-over, tries to determine if he’s genuinely well-intentioned with that question, or if he’s trying to test her. “I found out about this assignment thirty minutes ago,” she reminds him. “I haven’t had a chance to read your file yet.”

He looks unmoved by that revelation. “But you _have_ to have some ideas brewing. I’d like to know what they are.”

And he’s still sitting there – with his _stupid_ hands held up in the air and the countenance of a hostage negotiator, so she can’t help but snap: “Oh, _put your hands down_ already, would you? That gesture means nothing when I know you can probably knock me unconscious at least five different ways while still sitting in that chair, palms raised like you’re surrendering.”

The right corner of his mouth twitches. “Eight ways, off the top of my head,” he corrects, but nevertheless lowers his hands back to his lap. Teasingly, now, he tilts his head to the side, fixes another smile on his face. “C’mon, Boss. What’s the plan? How are we going to make America love me?”

“We’re not,” she deadpans, taking no small amount of satisfaction in the way he drops his grin, looks confused. “Or, well, not _entirely_.” She elaborates: “We’re going to make _some_ people love you, of course, but mostly we’re just going to make people forget about you. We want you _out_ of the spotlight; we don’t want worldwide _adoration_ , almost as much as we don’t want worldwide _condemnation_. So, we make you uninteresting. We tell a sympathetic story, make you look like a real hero, but then we make you out to be a normal, everyday guy… who just so happens to work with the Avengers.”

He nods his head, narrows his eyes a bit and stretches his jaw out to one side as he thinks it over. She’s not sure if he’s doubting the strategy, or just weighing its palatability – she barely knows him, but can already tell he’s not huge on the whole public relations / public image managing thing… he’s just got that _type_ written all over him – but she gives him time to consider her words, nonetheless. Because she’s a professional.

“Why bother with it at all, then?” he asks after a moment, twisting a hand in front of him in a gesture of some kind. “You want me out of the spotlight, why bother reforming my image in the first place? Wouldn’t it be easier to just give me an alias, come up with a solid cover ID?”

And it’s not the worst option in the world, actually, especially considering she’s pretty sure he’s close to unrecognizable at the moment, at least for people who don’t know him all that well. So she allows the suggestion, inclines her head in acknowledgment. “Perhaps. But Tony wants to use your name, and I don’t think you want to live your entire life undercover. This is what I do – control potential scandals and rehab superhero images. You think you’re the only one with a past I’ve had to clean up a bit? We don’t leave our employees out to dry here at Stark Industries.” And that feels like it might actually strike a chord with him, so she leans into the suspicion, tries to drive her point home: “We don’t leave our _teammates_ out to dry. You’re going to have everyone’s back when you’re coordinating support teams or – heaven forbid! – running a tactical extraction? We’re going to have your back, too. I can fix your image problem, Rumlow, but I’ll need you to work with me.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment, squints at her, then gives a decisive nod. It feels like a victory.

“Yeah?” she double-checks, both brows raised. “That mean you’ll cooperate?”

He simpers back at her, eyes twinkling. “Yeah,” he confirms. “Or, best I can, at least.”

And that’s probably as much as she can ask for. “I’ll take what I can get, because I’m going to need you to soften your image a bit, do some charity work, and act a little less… _murder-face-y_.” She flashes him a teasing grin of her own at that, tries to lighten the tone of the conversation once more. “There are things you can veto, lines you can tell me you won’t cross, but you’re gonna have to meet me in the middle, too.”

“I can play nice, Lewis,” he drawls, before frowning a bit when his mind seems to catch up with the conversation. “Wait… Soften my image? Charity? What, you gonna take a bunch of pictures of me volunteering with kids and holding baby animals, or something?”

Darcy scoffs at the very idea. “No, of course not. This isn’t amateur hour. That won’t feel authentic, and people don’t want to see posed bullshit. Also, it’s a lot harder to volunteer with children than you all assume it is. There are background checks that need to happen, parents and teachers have to feel comfortable with it, and forgive me for saying this, but you don’t exactly—“

“—Have a face that won’t send children screaming?”

She blanches once again, scrambles to backtrack. “What? _No_! That’s not—“

But Brock doesn’t let her get far in her explanation, cuts her off again to insist, “It’s fine. Like I said before, I think I look pretty good, all things considered.”

And _yeah_ …. _that’s_ not something she’s going to just let slide, so she’s quick to push back: “No! I mean, yes. You do. Of course.” – She bites back the urge to take it back when she sees his wide grin, settles for narrowing her eyes and communicating her disapproval through her serious, no-nonsense tone. – “But that’s not what I was going to say. _Fuck_! I _told_ you that wasn’t what I meant earlier, either! I was _going_ to say you don’t exactly seem like the kind of guy who’s got working-with-kids skills.”

Her explanation does little to placate him, though. If anything, he seems _more_ offended, now, sitting up in his seat and gesturing animatedly toward himself as he argues back: “I’m good with children, Lewis. I have eight nieces and nephews. Babies and women alike love me.”

And that’s a comment she doesn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole, so she simply nods her head in appeasement. “If you say so.”

“I mean it,” he affirms, scoffing when she only bobs her head once more. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he grouses, “I’m fucking _great_ with children. Why do people doubt that?”

“My mistake,” Darcy insists, this time lifting her own palms in placation. She lets him stew for a second, thinks back to his earlier comment, and has to admit: “The baby animal thing could work, though.”

His dark look is instantaneous. “Lewis—“

But she’s ready for this objection, has her defense already lined out. “Terrorists don’t have instas full of pictures of them holding cute baby animals.”

The face he makes telegraphs the fact that he begs to differ. “ _Actually_ —“

“I know, I _know_.” She waves a hand in dismissal, because that is _so not the point_. “But most people _think_ they don’t. Dogs are good judges of character, and whatnot.” She pauses, purses her lips at the thought. “You don’t have a dog, do you? You need a dog.”

“I’m not getting a dog,” he tells her, using a hand to cut across air between them. “There’s one of my lines I’m not crossing.”

Her brow arches, and she takes a moment to give him a quick once-over. “You can’t possibly be a cat person.”

That absolutely _filthy_ grin of his is back the second the words leave her mouth, and Darcy suddenly sees the coming conversation spread out in front of her like a giant connect-the-dots picture. She groans in anticipation.

“Don’t say it,” she requests half-heartedly, already knowing there’s no real hope he’ll listen.

“What? That I’m good with pussies?” He throws a wink her way, too, because _of fucking course_ he does. “Alright, I won’t say anything about that.”

She takes a breath, counts to ten, then tells him, blandly: “That’s the kind of thing that can get you reported to HR, you know.”

His expression doesn’t change, but he rolls a shoulder. “I’ll make sure not to go around saying it to anyone likely to be offended, then.”

She fixes a blank, unamused stare in his direction.

He openly smirks back, smug little fuck that he is.

“Oh, _yeah_ , I got your number, Sweetheart,” he says aloud, half a declaration of fact and half an open taunt, as he leans back in his chair and spreads his legs out a bit more, the picture of masculine confidence. “I noticed that you didn’t say _you_ were going to report me to HR.”

And – _fuck!_ – but he looks so self-satisfied, she wants to lean across the table, run her fingers through the hair he clearly cares way too much about, wrap her hands around his head… and then yank him forward and slam his face down into the table.

She briefly considers tasing him just for the hell of it – because at least that looks less _deranged_ _and_ _violent_ on her part, and it apparently wouldn’t _actually_ hurt him, so that had to be at least a partial defense if anyone from HR came to chastise _her_ , right? – but she somehow manages to find the strength to resist the temptation. She forces air into her lungs and then out again, consciously relaxes her grip on the pen she’d been unintentionally throttling and sets it safely aside, where she’ll hopefully be less tempted to use it as a stabbing implement.

“Remind me why we want you here, again?”

Rumlow throws back his head and laughs, eyes crinkling in delight. “I’m not sure that you do, Lewis,” he admits. “At least not yet. But you _will_ , and you won’t regret it – that much I promise. I’m only _half_ here because it’s the best option I had; I have actual ideas about how Stark can improve his security, you know. I’m the right man for the job.”

And that really shouldn’t be such a relief to hear, but, oddly enough, it _is_. Darcy lets out the breath she’d been holding, relaxes a bit. “Good, because a lot of people I care about depend on you being good at your job.” She steals a glance at the clock on her wall, looks back to him, and decides it’s the best opportunity she’s going to get. “Which, _speaking of_ , I should probably let you get back to. I’ll read through your file, then let you know what our best play is, alright?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he affirms with a clap, as he rocks forward and gets to his feet. He’s stepped back and pushed the chair into its normal place when he pauses, keeps a hold of its back, taps his fingers twice. “Why don’t we talk about it tomorrow? My schedule’s pretty tied up next week, and I got a feeling you aren’t gonna want to wait too long to get started.”

And it’s a fair point, really, but tomorrow is Saturday. Part of her wants to object to the imposition of presumptively trying to schedule a work thing on a _Saturday_ , but she’ll be lying if she acts as if she doesn’t already take work home regularly. …Or, if she pretends she wasn’t going to get an _immediate_ jump-start on this new assignment of hers.

She frowns, lets out a sigh, then acquiesces with a wave of her hand. “Fine. Two pm?” That gives her enough time to comb through the file and come up with a rough outline of what needs to happen in the next few months.

He makes an immediate noise of dissent. “No can do. I’m moving into the new apartment tomorrow, and don’t get the keys until noon. Why don’t you swing by around seven, and that’ll give me time to get settled in and run to the store. You bring the game plan, and I’ll make us something to eat while we bicker about it.”

“That’s not necessary,” comes her immediate protest, but he cuts her off with a sharp look.

“You never hear of a business dinner, Lewis?”

She glares, but can’t argue the point. And, reluctantly, she realizes that letting him make dinner would actually allow her to put off her grocery shopping for another day. With a sigh, she relents. “Fine. Seven.”

He tilts his head, looks her over and relaxes his grip on the chair back, as if surprised by her quick concession. “Yeah? How does Italian sound?”

Darcy’s eyes immediately narrow in suspicion, unable to trust that _that_ , too, isn’t a trap for another dirty joke. _He_ looks Italian, after all. She can see it now, him promising to _feed_ her or _stuff_ her with something authentically Italian…

But he looks genuinely puzzled as he waits for her reply, brow arching in silent question, so maybe it _isn’t_ a trap this time. She’s _just_ about to jump back in with an answer when she sees the understanding flash on his face, watches as his expression twists back into another one of his lewd grins.

“Not what I had in mind, Lewis, but if you’re interested…?” he trails off suggestively, shifting so that he’s leaning over the chair and towards her once again.

 _Jesus Christ_. Fuck her life.

She takes another breath, manages to squeak out a “Hard pass,” that doesn’t end up sounding quite as harsh and intimidating as she intends.

He only cocks his head to the side, lets his gaze sweep over her one more time – and he’s got a better angle for the view, now that he’s standing, so he takes a few seconds longer – before flashing another grin and sending a quick wink her way. “Seven!” he reminds as he pushes off the chair and makes his way out of her office, apparently knowing better than to test his luck by sticking around long enough for her to change their plans.

She collapses back against her chair and groans, sits there for a moment of sweet, sweet silence, before sending another look up at the clock.

3pm on a Friday is basically the end of the workday, isn’t it?

She grabs her bag, throws her laptop and her notepad into it.

It’s close enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter is _long_ , but it felt weird to try and cut it off somewhere in the middle.

Two hours into an evening of frustration baking and a virtual venting session with Jane – she owes Tony _at least_ twelve dozen of his favorite red velvet cupcakes for figuring out the logistics of inter-realm video calls! – Darcy Lewis comes to a conclusion: she is going to take this challenge that Pepper has saddled her with, and she is going to _conquer it_.

Brock Rumlow might just be the single most frustrating man she’s ever had to work with, but she is going to rise above the urge to commit violence or rage-quit and chase Jane to Asgard. She is going to do her job, and she is going to do it _well_. Let him try to goad her into doing something rash! She will meet his every obnoxious come-on with cold competence and maybe a judgmental eyebrow or two. She’ll be the picture of perfect professionalism.

…Or, at least, the kind of professionalism one can expect at a company run by Tony Stark.

She’ll be _mostly_ professional. She’s allowed to curse back and snark at him; she just can’t stab him with her pen and expect that to be covered by Stark’s employer liability insurance.

She’s got this.

…But, you know, it wouldn’t _hurt_ to make a contingency plan or two.

She takes a momentary break from opening a new bottle of vanilla extract, sets the thing aside as she looks up at the video screen. She and Jane have a good rhythm for these calls these days; they bounce between giving each other their undivided attention while they catch up on all the things they’ve missed and just doing their own things, working in comfortable, companionable silence that makes it feel like nothing’s changed at all.

It’s one of those latter moments, now, so Darcy can see Jane sifting through a scattered assortment of scribbled notes and torn papers covered in scrawled equations, can see that she’s got one highlighter tucked over an ear and the cap of another one held between her teeth. She’s not entirely sure where the colorful writing instrument itself has wandered off to, but she’s sure it’s fine.

“Janie, how’s your research coming along?” she asks casually, pretending for all of two seconds that she’s actually ready to shift the conversation back toward astrophysics and other non-PR-nightmare-related topics. “Do you have an opening for an intern? I may need both new employment and a way to escape US jurisdiction if things go sideways and I end up killing my new PR assignment.”

A distracted hum is the only answer she gets for a moment, as her friend continues sorting through documents, but the question bounces around in that huge scientific brain, and eventually it registers as something that requires a response. Jane pulls the highlighter cap from her mouth, steals a quick glance at the camera or video. “…I think you technically have diplomatic immunity as an Honorary Princess of Asgard. Want me to check with Thor?”

 _Ooh!_ Darcy perks up at that, momentarily distracted pondering the possibilities, before hazy details from her one international law course at Culver start to come back to her like flashes of partial memories from the night of your twenty-first birthday. “Would Asgard waive that for murder, though? I think countries usually waive diplomatic immunity for things like that.”

“I’ll ask Thor,” Jane confirms with complete and utter seriousness.

And Darcy’s not going to kill Brock Rumlow. She _really_ isn’t. She’s like 90% sure she won’t. But… it feels good to have an emergency back up escape plan, just in case.

She thanks Jane and gets back to baking.

\--x—

All things considered, Darcy has a productive Friday evening and an even more productive Saturday. She makes it through the file – is only able to give it a quick read-through and hasn’t yet been able to spend enough time combing through the minute details, but _still_! – and she gets the beginnings of a plan roughly sketched out in her mind.

It’s a long day, especially since her venting-and-baking-session the evening before meant she had to stay up later than usual to get anything done at all before bed, and by six-thirty, she’s seriously regretting having ever agreed to this stupid seven o’clock business dinner. Ordering in and lounging in pajamas is starting to sound particularly good, especially since she’s been hungry since five and is currently wondering _who_ in their right mind eats dinner so _late_.

A nagging little voice in the back of her mind reminds her that _people on dates_ eat dinner at seven p.m., but _this is not a date_ , so that’s not a helpful thought to have. …Birthday dinners and drinks with friends could start at seven, right? Why couldn’t a business dinner?

She hadn’t particularly _liked_ it when he’d first pitched it, of course, and then Jane’s raised eyebrows when she’d mentioned it last night certainly hadn’t helped matters. Jane hadn’t actually _said_ anything, just made a substantial _“oh”_ sound, and slowly repeated the details back to her as if she was just confirming she’d heard it right ( _“You’re going to dinner… just the two of you… Saturday night… at seven p.m…. at his house?”_ ), but Darcy is fluent in _Jane_.

She _knows_ what Jane was thinking.

She was quick to correct her friend (They’re meeting at his Stark-provided apartment in the building, not like going to a cozy house in the suburbs or something!) but that only earned a quiet _“ahh”_ of a response, which is not in any way a sound of agreement, not when it comes from the tiny scientist.

Again: she knows what Jane’s thinking.

But Jane is _wrong_ , and, in any case, it’s too late to do anything about it _now_. So, with all the reluctance of a child being told it’s time to get ready for bed, Darcy gets changed into real clothes, grabs the dessert she’s prepared, picks up her trusty portfolio, and drags herself down the hall to the elevator for the twelve second ride it takes to get to his floor. FRIDAY helpfully informs her she’s looking for the third door on the right, so she obediently makes her way to the door that, unsurprisingly, has neither a welcome mat nor a wreath or any other sort of decoration anywhere in sight.

She shuffles both items into one hand, uses the other to knock with the boring, unaccented doorknocker, then steps back and patiently waits. It takes a couple seconds longer than anticipated, but then the door pulls open and a casually dressed, formerly wanted terrorist is smiling down at her.

“Hey,” he greets, “you’re early.”

She levels an arch look his way, doesn’t hide how she really fells when she tells him, “Yeah, well, you chose a ridiculously late time for dinner.”

Her comment draws a wry grin out of him. “Yeah? I’ll make sure to schedule our next dinner for three in the afternoon. Give you time to do your puzzles and get to bed by six. We can do three thirty, if your bingo goes long.”

“Oooh, you sure you want to open the door for age jokes right now?” she quips back, donning a jokingly skeptical expression. It’s not in his best interest to be implying _she’s_ the grandma out of the two of them, after all.

There’s amusement dancing in his eyes as he looks back at her, and she gets the feeling he probably has a comeback or two of his own, but he chooses to concede instead, mimes being struck in the chest. “Point: Lewis.” He steps out of her way, tilts his head in a gesture for her to come inside, then lets her know, “I’m just finishing up in the kitchen. Give me two more minutes, and it’ll be worth the wait.”

She slips past him into the apartment, is momentarily distracted by the urge to peek around at _Crossbones_ ’ living area, so she replies on autopilot, warns him, “I have high standards, just so you know.”

There’s a click of the door as he shuts it behind her, and then he’s brushing past her, spinning around so that he’s walking backwards a few steps, gaze sweeping over her from head to foot. There’s confidence bordering on cockiness mixed with a bit of muted heat in his eyes as he promises her, “That’s fine, Sweetheart. I’ll exceed them.”

And _that_ sounds like he’s talking about more than just dinner, so she sends him a censoring look, once again starts to regret ever agreeing to this dinner. He winks, but seems to know better than to press his luck, simply turns around and strolls over into the kitchen.

All of the S.I. apartments have pretty similar open concept floor plans, so she’s got a view of pretty much the whole living area from from where she’s standing – can see the entertainment system and sofas, the little dining area, and the kitchen itself. The table itself is completely empty, but she sees silverware and serviettes – _actual cloth serviettes_ – set up on the little bar top by the kitchen, so she follows after him, sets aside her portfolio and the still-covered dessert and leans against the back of a bar stool.

“I don’t know how you feel about dry whites,” he’s telling her as he pours out two glasses of what the bottle’s label identifies as Sauvignon Blanc, “but – _trust me!_ – this is the right pairing for both courses.”

She raises her brow at that – because: _courses?_ as in _plural_? – but nevertheless accepts the stemmed glass she’s handed, gives it an experimental swirl and takes a small sip. The way his lips twitch as he watches her tells her he’s probably already picked up on the fact that she’s no wine connoisseur, but if not, she confirms it when she tells him, “I like it. I’m not picky.”

…You know, because that’s not exactly contrary to her _I have high standards_ comment from five seconds ago.

She _does_ like the wine, though, and she’ll trust his judgment on it being a good pairing for the meal. Darcy’s personally always had more of an _and this wine goes well with… whatever I’m currently eating!_ kind of approach to wine pairing, and she’s had more than her fair share of boxed wine in her days, but she can still appreciate a nicer wine, can tell from the taste that this brand she doesn’t even kind of recognize is probably pretty high-end.

He nods, seems satisfied if a little amused by her response, then takes a sip from his own glass. He sets it back down on the counter between them, tipping it in her direction along the way as he gestures to the stool in front of her. “Sit, sit! Enjoy the wine. It’ll just take me a second to finish up.”

Her manners won’t allow her to do that with out at least offering, however: “Can I help?”

A playful glare answers her. “Don’t doubt me, Lewis. I’m a man of many talents. Cooking is one of them. _Sit_.”

She doesn’t bother to hide the fact that she rolls her eyes. “Right, right. You cook, you’re good with kids, and you can take a bad guy in a fight,” she recaps dryly, hates to break it to him: “You’re not being very subtle.”

His lips pull back into a devilish smirk. He doesn’t look the least bit chagrined. “You’re forgetting—“

And _yeah no_ , they very much do _not_ need to go back to the _cat_ innuendo. She wastes no time in cutting him off, tells him firmly, “ _No_. I’m _not_.”

He looks like he’s only _barely_ resisting the urge to offer her a demonstration any time she wants, but he eases off, takes another sip of his wine and watches her over the rim. When he sets the glass down again, he seemingly shifts back into business mode, reins himself in and turns back to the cutting board. “You got any allergies?”

It’s a bit late to be asking that, she thinks, but she answers him anyway, appreciates that he’s at least checking _now_ before anything’s served. “Nope.”

She finally does hop up into that seat, watches as he gets to work chopping what appears to be fresh parsley. His focus on the task at hand gives her an opportunity to look him over, not in a sexual, checking-him-out kind of way, but in a professional, can’t-help-but-be-curious way.

He’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved cream shirt – very casual, enough so that she’d almost feel overdressed, if her blouse-slacks-heels combination didn’t help hammer home the whole _this is a business dinner, not a social call_ thing. Darcy’s less interested in the outfit he’s wearing, though, is far more interested in the new skin that’s showing – or lack there of, depending on how you look at it. Yesterday, he’d had a form-fitting, long-sleeved shirt on, and had also worn a pair of tactical fingerless gloves. Today, his hands are fully visible, and the neckline of his shirt is lower. It’s not a significant difference, really, but it allows her to confirm her suspicions that the scarring visible on his face most likely _does_ extend over his entire body.

 _Shit_. She can’t even imagine how bad that healing process must have been, how bad the Triskelion _itself_ must’ve been.

And she realizes she’s staring, knows that she needs to turn her attention elsewhere before she gets caught. She shifts in her seat, takes a moment to look around the sparsely-decorated standard-issue Stark Industries residence. A frown tugs at her lips when she can’t spot a single piece of furniture or knickknack he would’ve had to move or unpack.

Casually, she asks aloud, “I thought you said you were moving your stuff this afternoon?”

“I did.”

She cuts a glance back at him, lifts her brow. “…Do you just not own any stuff?”

There’s a twist of his mouth before he looks back up at her and feigns offense. “ _Hey_!” He gestures with the knife to the end table on the other side of the living area, nods pointedly at the small _ficus_ sitting on an end table. “That plant is mine.”

And if her brows had been raised before, they must be at her hairline by now. “It took you seven hours to move a plant?”

He scoffs. “No, it took me seven hours to sweep for bugs, deconstruct the AI’s surveillance system within this apartment, identify the best locations to stash emergency back-up weapons, run to the better produce market on the other end of town, and get back in time to make my _nonna’s_ famous chicken marsala for you. It only took _ten_ minutes to move the plant.”

And Darcy’s not sure where to start with all of that.

She blinks, takes a second to glance around the living area another time, as if she’ll somehow be able to detect which surfaces are now hiding lethal weapons, before she realizes she needs to focus on what’s probably, objectively, the most concerning thing he just shared.

She turns back to him, leans against the counter that separates them. “What do you mean you _deconstructed the surveillance system_?”

“I _reconstructed_ it, too. _Relax_ ,” he tells her, drawing it out like he’s trying to calm down a drama queen. “I wanted to know what I was working with, figure out what was and was not being monitored. I’m sure the AI has notified Stark already; it’s not a secret. I put almost everything back in place.”

“Her name is FRIDAY – the AI,” Darcy supplies, only for her brain to suddenly catch up with the conversation and snag on the most important detail he’d just mentioned. “Wait. Back up. _Almost_ everything?”

His posture remains relaxed and unconcerned as he continues chopping parsley on the cutting board. “I tweaked a few of the privacy protocols. It’s not a big deal.”

The brunette takes a minute to process that, weighs the pros and cons of digging for more information or letting the whole thing go. She wants to know – she _really_ does, and she can admit the entire thing sounds _just_ suspicious enough that she can _almost_ justify demanding to be told the particulars – but she _also_ recognizes that pushing on this will likely jeopardize their ability to ever have a decent working relationship. It’s not her job to micromanage what he does, after all, not her place to scrutinize his every decision and try to determine if there’s something suspicious going on.

That doesn’t mean she’s not curious, though. “These default privacy protocols… are they the same throughout the building?”

He shoots her a sideways glance, seems to catch on to where she’s going with her question. “…You want me to tweak the settings in your apartment?”

Blinking at the offer, she chews on the inside of her lip and considers. “I don’t know. _Do_ I?”

His posture shifts. She watches as he straightens ever so slightly, as his gaze turns assessing and he seems to actually consider her question, give it some genuine thought. He sets the knife aside, turns and leans his hip against a different counter, crosses his arms over his chest as he looks back at her.

“It’s safer for one of us – Stark, Virginia Potts, me, whoever you listed as your emergency contacts, so I assume Foster and Thor – to be able to get the details of who was in your apartment last, what your biometric scans were at the time you entered and exited.” He lifts a shoulder, shrugs as he counters his own point: “On the other hand, there’s a 12 hour record of ambient audio recording that can be accessed if the— if _FRIDAY_ determines there’s been an emergency and believes accessing private recordings is justified. You want Stark to be able to hear the way you scream when you’re in the middle of a _really_ good fuck?”

And it’s an exceptionally blunt question, but a legitimate one, not a come-on this time, so doesn’t protest. “…Not particularly.” She tilts her head side to side, though, weighs the logistics of it all. She thinks about who her next door neighbors are (and how decidedly _not_ soundproof she knows the walls to be!) and remembers with a wince that one time when Tony walked in on her having an ill-advised tryst in the Avengers’ in-house private movie theatre. “…Wouldn’t be the first time, though,” she admits out of habit, never having been one to feel particularly ashamed about such things. The second the words leave her mouth, though, she realizes how much that information is _so_ _not_ _going to help_ with the incessant, inappropriate flirting thing.

Rumlow surprises her by flashing a conspiratorial grin but otherwise leaving the comment alone, moves on instead to his next question: “You trust the AI’s judgment of what constitutes an emergency?”

Understanding that he’s talking about more than just sex noises, now, Darcy takes a moment to contemplate before ultimately giving a decisive bob of her head. “FRIDAY’s a good bro; she’s got my back.”

“Then the default protocols are probably fine for you.”

“Good to know, thanks.”

He tips his head in acknowledgment, pushes off the counter and turns back to the parsley. He seems to be done chopping it now, so she watches as he gathers it, watches him sprinkle it over top of two pasta bowls he’d plated before she arrived. He’s back at the cutting board a couple of seconds later, slicing in half a small handful of cherry tomatoes.

She takes the opportunity to eye him again, this time trying to figure out what game he’s playing. That conversation they’d just finished had been ripe with opportunities for more of his dirty jokes or come-ons. Hell, _Darcy_ had been tempted to make a couple – would have, certainly, if it’d been Tony or Jane across from her, and not her newest PR assignment. She resisted the urge, of course, because setting aside for a moment the fact that it would’ve only encouraged his habit of saying ridiculously dirty things to her in professional settings, she’s pretty sure it would’ve been an ethical violation on her part. Probably reportable to HR, actually, given their working relationship. Not that she expected he would respond in any way other than to double down on his _own_ jokes, but it was a good thought exercise in responsibility.

Science Intern Darcy would’ve made the joke.

Now-Oh-So-Much-More-Mature Darcy let the moment pass with nothing more than a sad mental sigh at the missed opportunity.

Adulting. It’s overrated.

But yes, she knows why _she_ didn’t make a joke. She’s less sure why _he_ didn’t. It seems weird to her that he didn’t go for the obvious opening, that despite a couple of lightly flirtatious comments about having useful skills or being able to exceed any of her expectations, he hasn’t otherwise done much, didn’t press on the sex-noises issue until it made her uncomfortable or anything.

She narrows her eyes at him speculatively, is surprised by how much easier they’re getting on than she’d been expecting. They just might be able to make this business relationship work, if he’s capable of playing nice and actually following directions when she tells him what he needs to do to fix his image problem.

The care he’s putting into his cooking gives her a new idea, if nothing else; it wouldn’t hurt to highlight this side of him to the public. She can add a few food-related images or stories to his socials, can probably get one of her friends at _Meredith_ or _Hearst_ to throw a few soft-ball questions at him about cooking and family recipes, whenever she gets him to sit down for an interview with one of the media conglomerates.

That’d help. Men who can cook seem more approachable and less dangerous. Not that the man across from her _isn’t_ incredibly dangerous, of course, but she needs him to come off a little more _everyday American_ and less _combat expert_ to the general public. There’s nothing remotely scary about the diligent amateur chef standing in front of her, posture relaxed and a content, easygoing expression on his face.

She watches as he sets the knife aside, scoops the tomato halves up in one hand. With practiced ease, he sprinkles a few onto one of the previously plated salads, then pauses with his hand hovering over the second plate. Darcy glances up from his hands to his face, realizes that he’s looking at her, brow raised in silent question.

And there he goes, pleasantly surprising her again! She’d all but come to terms with the fact that she’d have to politely eat the stupid things, because it’s one thing to ask for raw tomatoes to be kept off a salad at a restaurant, but it’s another thing entirely to ask for substitutions on a home-cooked meal someone else prepares for you. She crinkles her nose at him, grins when he tosses the remaining tomatoes back onto his own salad. He holds one back, though, apparently, and maintains eye contact as he drops the single half of a cherry tomato on top of her otherwise tomato-free salad. His lips twitch, and he winks at the mock-outrage on her face.

And she can tell he’s done with the finishing touches, now, can see that he’s about to start serving the _multi-fucking-course meal he made_ , so she tries to help, sits forward in her seat and reaches for the almost-tomato-free plate.

His immediate, wordless shout of protest startles her, and then she finds her hand slapped away, a scolding finger pointed her way. “What are you doing, you _heathen_? Sit _down_! You’d give my mother a heart attack.” He reaches for the pasta dish instead, holds it up pointedly. “ _This_ first.”

Using his free hand to pluck his wine glass from the counter, he leans forward so he can set it in front of the open seat beside her. He picks up the second of the shallow bowls, then, and carries them with him as he makes his way around to her side of the counter, sets one down in front of her with a flourish.

“ _Penne all’arrabbiata_ ,” he announces as he slips onto the stool beside her and angles it so he’s sort of diagonally facing both the counter and her. She mimics the position, finds it more natural than sitting stiffly shoulder-to-shoulder and facing the same direction. He prompts her with a pointed nod. “Try it.”

And it’s weird to eat while someone else is just watching you, but she does as she’s bid, takes a bite of the penne and is pleasantly surprised by the strong flavors that hit her. She goes for a second forkful.

“Yeah?” he checks, apparently waiting for her approval.

The younger woman only barely resists the urge to roll her eyes, keeps a neutral expression on her face as she takes another sip of the wine, makes him wait for a response. “I thought you were completely certain you’d meet and surpass even my very exacting standards?”

His mouth twists, and he eyes her with renewed confidence. “Yeah,” he repeats, this time a declaration of fact and not a question. He reaches for his own fork, nods his head in satisfaction. “You like it. You’re impressed."

Honestly, Darcy’s got half a mind to wipe that smug smile off his face, but she was raised with manners and won’t lie to him when he went to the effort of making such an elaborate home cooked meal. That said, it hasn’t escaped her notice that he absolutely _did not need_ to make such an elaborate meal to begin with, so she also doesn’t want to _encourage_ him, if he’s thinking this is anything other than the business dinner they’d agreed upon.

Still… “I like the sauce,” she admits, holds up one of the penne noodles speared on her fork. “It’s spicy.”

“Angry sauce,” he offers as a translation from the Italian name he’d given earlier. Then, clearly preening a bit, he informs her, “I made it from scratch.”

“Of course you did.” She takes another bite, rolls her eyes at his overly pleased expression, and goes for another. It still feels strange to eat the pasta before the salad, but she’s not going to complain, not when it tastes this good. “So, I made it through your file, and I’ve got a rough plan for how we’re going to do this,” she starts after a few seconds, reaches for her wine and takes a sip.

The former STRIKE Commander heaves out a sigh, looks terribly put-upon to be actually talking business, but gestures with his fork for her to continue. “Let’s get on with it, then. What’s it going to be? Puppies and charity work?”

“In addition to at least two interviews where you will be on your best behavior, and a few select appearances with certain key players of my choosing, yes. Plus full cooperation with whatever it is Legal needs you to do to make sure you’re not going to be arrested or extradited to another country every time you travel, but that one should go without saying.”

He scowls, but doesn’t fight her. _Yet_. Instead, he stabs his fork into the penne and continues eating. “Tell me about the interviews you want me to do.”

And he could _ask nicely_ , but she decides to be the bigger person and let it go. “The first is going to be with a friend of mine from Culver. She writes on Capitol-related news, so she’s going to do a feature on the nature of the pardon you were given. You’ll tell her about your work as _Crossbones_ – I’ll get you a list of three pre-approved mission summaries that the government is willing to let you talk about – and you’ll probably talk briefly about your time in the Navy, too. We’ll go for the war-hero-slash-humble-patriot angle. You _will_ play nice.”

He cuts a glance her way, takes another bite of his dinner and promises nothing.

“We’ll do that one as soon as I can get the schedule to work – ideally sometime in the next week,” Darcy continues. “We’ll see how it goes, decide what needs to happen next based on how the public reacts to that first interview. I also want you in the periphery of a feel-good piece for the team we’re going to run in a couple weeks. You’ll just talk up Avengers protocols, mention how we’re taking all of these voluntary steps to make sure our teams are as trained as possible, how we’re working hard to mitigate any damage that might result from superhero smashdowns… That sort of thing.”

“That one I'll do,” he agrees, points with his fork. “I’m not doing the other one.”

Her counter is immediate: “Oh, but you _are_!” She accents the statement by mimicking his fork-point.

“Am I?”

And there’s a threat lurking in that question, a _you think you can make me?_ taunt that Darcy hears plain as day, but she doesn’t care. He’s fucking doing the interview. “You seem to think I was _asking_ , but I was actually _informing_. There _are_ going to be features done about your pardon, Rumlow. They _will_ be written. You talk with my friend, we at least get to control the narrative a little, and we can guarantee a friendly spin. This is not negotiable.”

He stares her down for a long moment, seems to be weighing the likelihood of it working to in his favor if he continues to fight her on this.

She gives him the time, just sips her wine and hopes he comes to the right decision.

“I’m not talking about HYDRA,” he finally stipulates, clearly drawing his own line in the sand.

She immediately agrees. “I don’t _want_ you to talk about HYDRA. In fact, I _insist_ you _don’t say a_ _word_ about HYDRA.” A stern look hopefully communicates how serious she is about that. “I’ll have her submit a list of questions ahead of time, and I’ll veto anything iffy. I’ll also prep you on the best way for you to answer the questions she _is_ going to ask. Deal?”

He squints at her, takes another minute, apparently not yet finished negotiating. “I want a look at that list in advance.”

“That’s what _prep_ means, Rumlow,” she reminds him archly. “We’ll go through the questions together.”

“I want veto rights, Lewis.”

She flashes an overly sweet smile his way, tells him, “You’re getting greedy. That’s a big ask.”

He copies her expression, informs her, “It wasn’t an _ask_.”

A few seconds pass before she picks up her glass again, before she leans back in the stool and eyes him with consideration. “We cross that bridge if we get to it,” she compromises, unwilling to make that concession just yet.

He raises his own glass to his lips, takes a sip, then tilts the cup her way. “Deal.”

The brunette takes a second to give the man across from her a once-over, before she realizes that she’s regrettably finished almost all of her wine already. She pouts at the glass as she puts it back down, but then quickly gets over it and sends him another contemplative glance. “It always going to be this difficult with you?” she wants to know.

The question has his features rearranging into a wide grin as he winks at her, is quick to claim, “It’ll be fun.” He sits forward, then, leans across the countertop and is just able to swipe the wine bottle from its spot. He tops them both off with the remaining liquid then lets her know, “There’s another bottle in the fridge.”

She snorts. “Getting me drunk won’t get me off your back, you know.” It doesn’t stop her from reaching for the glass and taking another sip, though.

There’s a twinkle in his eye and an uneven twist to his lips when he looks back at her, arms open wide in a gesture of generosity. “Sweetheart, you want me on my back, all you have to do is ask.”

And Slightly Tipsy Darcy might but just as capable of holding her position in a business negotiation, but Slightly Tipsy Darcy is _not_ capable of keeping a perfectly neutral poker face. She tries to stifle her immediate laugh, fails utterly at keeping her amusement hidden, if the pleased look on his face is anything to go off of. “Goddamn it! You were doing so _well_!” she laments, but the complaint doesn’t sound as convincing when she’s still trying to hold back a snicker.

He has no such desire to hide his reaction. Completely unperturbed, the full-grown-man-child throws back his head and laughs.

Darcy takes a moment to finish up her pasta, still shaking her head in amusement. When he moves to clear their plates and heads back into the kitchen to grab the next dish, she asks aloud, “Okay, seriously, why can’t we just have a normal, _professional_ working relationship?”

He steals a glance in her direction, tells her with all the seriousness of a tattling eight-year-old boy: “ _You_ started it.”

That draws a loud groan out of her, less because of the childishness and more because she’s really starting to wonder if she’ll ever be able to live yesterday’s meet-ugly down. “And I _have apologized_ for the _looks like a bad guy_ comment _several times,_ now. Can we _please_ move on?”

He just laughs again, shakes his head as he drizzles a balsamic dressing over the two salads. He leans across the counter and extends an arm, hands her the salad with the single half cherry tomato perched on top. “That’s not when you started it, Sweetheart.”

She watches as he slides his own salad over to his spot, and she tries to figure out what it is he’s talking about while he retrieves two additional plates and carries them with him out of the kitchen and around to the bar top. She’s still drawing a blank when he sets one plate in front of her and slips back onto his stool with the other.

“ _Nonna’s_ chicken marsala,” comes his grand announcement, “and an arugula salad, no tomatoes.”

There’s teasing judgment there, a _because you are an uncultured toddler_ left unsaid, and so she feels compelled to snark back at him and corrects, like the smartass she is: “ _One_ tomato.”

He concedes the point, amends: “One tomato.” Lips twitching, he tells her, “It’s good for you.”

And there’s a part of her that’s tempted to scoop the thing up and deposit it on one of his plates, since they seem to have that whole childish bickering thing going on and refusing to eat the stupid thing seems like a perfectly reasonable response to him telling her it’s _good for her_ … but Darcy resists the temptation, stabs it with a fork and eats it first, just to get it over with.

Brock’s the one to pick up the conversation where they left off, this time. “Talk to me about the rest of your plan. You mentioned appearances?”

“A few strategic ones, yes, but I don’t have any specifics in mind yet. I’d like to get you and Steve in a room or at an event together, then you and Nat, too. It’d be good for people to associate you with both of them and unconsciously draw some parallels. Steve’s former military and was briefly a wanted fugitive, and people _like_ Nat, despite her time with the KGB. We want them thinking you’re no different.”

He takes a sip of his wine, looks skeptical but not actually opposed. “Good luck with that. Cap doesn’t much like me right now, Sweetheart. I don’t see him wanting to lie and play nice for the cameras. …Romanoff’s a roll of the dice. She’s got her own reasons to hold a grudge, but she knows how to compartmentalize the _personal_ and the _professional_.”

Darcy eyes him, tries to gauge his mood. “You ready to tell me about any of that yet?”

A decidedly less pleasant smile is aimed her way, and then he reaffirms: “No comment.”

And she’s not surprised – not _really_ – so she only nods, tries another angle: “Will you at least tell me what happened with your _Crossbones_ gig? One second everything’s Gucci, the next second you’re refusing to ever work for the government again.”

He levels her with a long, silent stare and refuses to budge.

She decides to prod one more time, prompts: “Your pardon didn’t mention there being any problems. It just said you completed your undercover assignments as issued.”

There’s a firm _clink!_ as he sets the glass back down on the counter. “No comment.”

And she can respect that he wants to keep some things private, sure – she already _knows_ she’s going to have to play the long game with him and earn his trust before he tells her anything about his time with HYDRA – but this isn’t some minor personal detail she’s asking about right now. If he has a major issue with the US government… “ _Brock_ … I _need_ to know if the goddamn _President_ has a bone to pick with you. If there’s _any_ chance this could blow back on you, jeopardize your pardon…”

He hears what she leaves unsaid, heaves out a loud sigh and cuts her annoyed glance, but at least tells her, “Fury made me a promise that he never intended to keep. I held up my end of the arrangement. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”

That was something, at least. She nods, appreciates him giving her at least part of the story, even if it _did_ need to be dragged out of him. But she’s been screwed by SHIELD, too, and doesn’t doubt for a second that good ol’ not-dead Nick Fury would lie and make false promises to get someone to go along with one of his plans. She’s not sure what it is Brock Rumlow could’ve been promised other than a full pardon – which he _got_ – but: “Is this something you want help obtaining? I don’t mind putting the screws to Fury, throwing some Avengers weight around to get you what you’re owed.”

The former SEAL-turned-STRIKE-Commander-turned-HYDRA-agent-turned-undercover-operative (whatever the order) sends her a small, bitter smile and seems to let his entire demeanor soften considerably. “Nothing to be done about it,” he tells her, just as vaguely as before. But his shoulders are less tense, now, his tone more gentle. “I appreciate you wanting to go to bat for me, though, Sweetheart.”

“That’s literally my job,” she tells him, meets his gaze and tries to communicate how sincere she is when she says this. “I manage your reputation, but I also advocate _for you_. Anyone gives you shit, you let me at ‘em.”

His expression brightens a bit, bitterness fading into a wryness that looks far more natural on him. “I’ve got thick skin, Lewis,” he assures her, before pointedly lifting a hand, turning it so she can see the scarring on the back of it. “ _Literally_ , now. I can fight my own battles.”

And Darcy’s worked with enough of these superhero types to know better than to beat her head against a brick wall, so she rolls her eyes, takes another sip of her wine and gives up the argument. That doesn’t stop her from confidently declaring: “You want me in your corner, Rumlow.” She knows her worth, after all, knows she’s _damn_ good at her job and even better at advocating for the people she cares about – whether that’s a personal friend like Jane or a work acquaintance slash assignment.

“I want you any way I can get you, Lewis,” comes his saucy reply. But he shifts gears, then, changes the topic before she can complain once again about his lack of professionalism. He nods at the plate in front of her. “Do you like the chicken?”

And – _shit_! – she’s all but forgotten about the chicken! She blinks down at the plate, can’t even recall eating the half that she apparently has. She takes another bite, pays attention this time, then waves her fork in his direction as she feels compelled to point out: “You know, you’re really quite high-maintenance with this whole _need for approval_ thing, fishing for compliments every ten seconds like you are.”

“If you complimented me more without prompting, I wouldn’t have to fish,” he retorts, before rolling his eyes affectionately and taking a bite of his own chicken. “Nah, I’m not high maintenance. I’m very chill, very low-maintenance.”

She arches a brow, looks him up and down. “No one with your percentage of body fat and that fancy a haircut is _chill_.”

He grins up at her through thick lashes. “You checking me out, Lewis?”

“More like trying to identify weaknesses that I can exploit in the event you continue being a pain in my ass.” And she’s pretty proud of that retort – that is, until she sees the look in his eyes. “No!” she immediately scolds, rushing to cut him off. “Don’t say it!”

“Say what?” comes his falsely-innocent inquiry. “I didn’t say anything.” But they both know he’s got at least three different jokes he wants to make about being a _pain_ in her _ass_ or offering to be a pain _elsewhere_ or whatever other dirty way he could twist the completely normal, completely platonic expression she’d just used.

“The chicken’s very good,” she says instead, figuring the redirection is worth the risk of further inflating his ego.

He lets her get away with it, just watches her in satisfaction as he takes another sip of his wine.

She rolls her eyes and gets back to business. “You’re going to volunteer at the VA with Sam, and I want control of any socials you have.” Once again, she’s not asking.

He sets down his glass, tilts his head in a way that she’s coming to realize means he’s about to argue with her again. “Bird Man and I don’t get along.”

She takes a break from her salad, looks back at him and deadpans, “You don’t seem to get along with _anyone_.”

A roll of a shoulder makes it clear how little that fact bothers him. He stays on course: “You haven’t mentioned this to him yet, have you? If you had, you’d know he won’t be okay with it.”

“I’ll handle Wilson,” she perseveres. “You just need to show up when I tell you to. It’s good work, Rumlow, and I think you might actually be good at it.”

…Not to mention, it might actually be good _for him_ , too; Darcy’s dealt with enough of these superhero types to know that they sometimes forget they’re not alone with some of the things they struggle with. Rumlow’s former military and clearly carrying some serious baggage from his time with HYDRA and from the accident at the Triskelion; spending some time at the VA could _really_ do him some good.

His gaze flicks over her, but he doesn’t protest again. Instead, he changes the topic: “I’m not on social media.”

“Really?”

A slow nod. “Cost of working in covert ops, Lewis. You don’t get to leave a footprint.”

And that makes sense, she supposes. Taking another bite of her salad, she mentally adjusts course for Plan B. “In that case, I’m going to create an insta for you.”

He throws another skeptical look her way. “You want me on Instagram?”

“I _want_ you on TikTok, but you’re probably a bit outside the target demographic, there. We want this believable, and fifty year olds don’t really use TikTok.”

“I’m _forty-eight_ , Lewis, not—“ But he seems to realize she’s taunting him, so he cuts himself off, pins her with an unamused glower as he takes a large swig from the wineglass. “You’re a menace.”

She brushes aside the assessment, figures she’d have to admit it’s probably true and Pepper would very likely agree. “It’s important people see you as a normal person,” she stresses to him. “We’re not trying to build a huge following for you or anything – we don’t want you actually _in_ the spotlight if we can avoid it, but it can’t look like you’re _hiding_ from it, either. So I’ll set up an account for you, manage the content, keep it pretty on-brand.”

It’s his turn to arch his remaining brow, lips twitching up as he sits back in his seat, cocks his head to the side. “And what exactly _is_ my brand, Sweetheart?”

“I was just going to go for clean, professional-looking snapshots of your authentic life,” she answers with a shrug. “Nothing crazy – we want you to look relatable. You’re a gym rat and healthy eating guy, I can tell. We’ll lean into that. Then just some artsy shots of the tower, the New Avengers Facility… things like that. All very upscale magazine quality.”

He nods, takes a minute to finish clearing his plate, then sends a mischievous glance at her. “I want veto rights.”

She laughs, has no issue with that concession this time. “You have them.” Without further ado, Darcy hops down from her stool, starts stacking the plates and tries to cut off his immediate protest: “ _I_ brought dessert. This one’s me.”

She clears away the dishes, ignores his very-clearly-not-thrilled expression as he watches her carry them into the kitchen. He’s quick to help her out when she makes grabby hands at the tubberware she’d brought with her, though. His reach is longer than hers, so he picks up the container, hands it over the counter to her.

“Plates?” she inquires.

“Cupboard right behind you.”

She retrieves two small ones without issue and then pulls open a drawer at random and successfully finds two dessertspoons. “You said you were making Italian, so I thought this would go with the theme: homemade tiramisu.” It takes her only a few seconds to open the tubberware and plate the two slices she’d brought with her, and then she’s making her way back around to the bar top, mimicking his earlier flourish as she sets one plate in front of him and hops back up into her seat with the other one.

And maybe she understands his earlier insistence on hearing what she thought of his cooking, now, because she’s eagerly watching his expression, eagerly waiting to see what he thinks when he takes a bite. She’s always interested in seeing if people like her baking, really, always happy to get a second opinion on whether she should tweak a recipe, but if she’s learned anything at this little business dinner of theirs, it’s that Rumlow is apparently _actually_ Italian American. He probably has high standards for tiramisu, and she’d love the opportunity to get an informed critique.

Because she’s eagerly awaiting his reaction, she sees the carefully neutral expression on his face, sees the way he eyes the dessert then looks back up at her as he lifts his fork, and sees the slight strain at the corner of his eyes when he catches her looking and flashes a smile her way. It doesn’t take long for her to put two and two together.

She _laughs_.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you don’t _like_ tiramisu, do you?”

He blanches, is quick to try and cover. “No, no! It looks _great_ , Sweetheart. I just ate a lot and—“

Darcy cuts him off with a sharp, disapproving but not unkind glare. “It’s _okay_ , Rumlow. You don’t have to eat it,” she insists. “I’m not offended. Not everyone likes tiramisu – it’s a divisive dessert. No big deal.”

He remains unconvinced, glances furtively between the offending dessert and the woman who made it. “I’m not huge on sweets,” he finally reveals, seems to be waiting for her to get upset.

The brunette fixes a grave expression on her face. “Now _that_ … that _is_ a big deal. It’s okay to not like tiramisu. It’s _not_ okay to not like dessert.”

His shoulders relax, signal that he realizes she’s teasing him and therefore can’t _actually_ be upset. “I’m sorry,” he tells her anyway.

She waves the apology off with a fork. “As you should be. But _whatever._ I’m still eating my piece. You can sit there and watch me enjoy this while you contemplate your life decisions.”

His eyes twinkle dangerously, and then a second later, the other shoe drops – like it _always_ seems to do whenever he adopts an expression like that.

He smirks, wants to know: “You gonna make pretty noises for me while I sit here and watch you enjoy that?”

Her spoon clatters on the plate. The loud groan she lets out is probably _not_ the kind of noise he’s looking for. Exasperated, she turns to him with pleading eyes. “Why are you like this?”

The only answer she gets is a wide, unrepentant grin.


End file.
